“But…” began Diana, looking helplessly at Keith.
Odette was looking at him, too, with a…melting…expression. Marie-Noël was staring at him intently.
“Er…won’t you miss her at home?” He faltered.
“No, no!” cried Odette. “I can take her share of the work. It’s time she had a change.”
Marie-Noël nodded. “She is thirty, after all.”
“Really,” said Keith, trying not to look at anything in particular in case he gave offence.
“The minimum wage—the SMIC,” said Odette briskly, standing up. “Just to make sure of her pension, you know.”
Marie-Noël drained her glass. She, too, stood up. “Tomorrow, then,” she said.
They were gone.
Diana and Keith gave vent to their pent-up hysteria, almost screaming with laughter as they went over each part of the conversation, trying to make sense of the mysterious trio.
“Well!” said Keith finally. “It seems we’re stuck with a village maiden earlier than we’d anticipated.”
“Do you mind—really?” asked Diana, suddenly sober.
“I don’t know,” said Keith. “But we’ll give the poor thing a try—we don’t have to keep her, if we don’t want to.”
She arrived, pushing a hand-cart loaded with rolls of wire, several ducks and bantams perched on top. She at once set about settling her feathered friends in their new quarters. Then she turned her attention to the mopping and dusting. The Carters were well pleased with their Joséphine after a few weeks. She worked from dawn to dusk in house and garden, apparently tireless. In deference to her presence, they fell into the habit of speaking French while she was around, but she continued to talk very little. She was always cheerful, despite her sombre and unvaried costume of black cotton dress and shapeless cardigan. And the inevitable head-covering. Soon, Diana ceased to be curious about it.
The livestock she had provided were an added bonus. The fresh eggs were delicious and Joséphine was not in the least squeamish about wringing the necks of one of her pets to provide dinner.
As Diana served roast duck to the Abbredo sisters a few months later, she remarked on this.
“I must admit I keep well out of the way when Joséphine—er—despatches them,” she admitted.
“Ha!” barked Marie-Noël. “You remind me of the Kommandant. One day, during his Occupation of our beloved château, now alas a ruin, he watched me strangle a hen. This so-correct German aristocrat had been specially chosen, we had heard, for this situation as it was known he would treat local people with tact and endear them to his cause. He was, oh, so famous for his just and fair treatment of we Bretons. On this occasion of which I am telling you, he said, ‘Myself, I could never kill an animal…a Frenchman, yes, but a chicken, never!’”
There was a slightly awkward silence.
Odette said, “The mayonnaise is excellent…I’m sure you made it, Mr. Carter.”
He nodded, blushing at her open stare of admiration.
“It arrived!” he said. “Though not always.”
“Ah,” said Odette, leaning closer. “My uncle, a fisherman, gave me a good tip…he made mayonnaise out at sea in the worst of weathers. He always stirred it with a fork stuck into a raw potato…that way, it comes out perfectly every time!”
She helped herself to more salad and, with a look of pure coquetry, more mayonnaise.
Marie-Noël was pursuing her own line of thought. Stirring her coffee thoughtfully, she said, almost to herself, “My brothers and I—the day we knew the War was over—we pushed his great black car into the River Sal—the Kommandant.”
Odette capped this post-scriptum by describing the Kommandant’s mistress, temporary châtelaine, a beautiful French courtesan from Paris, with friends in high places in four armies.
Afterwards, discussing the conversation with Diana, Keith was relieved to discover that she had found the tales so fascinating that she appeared not to have noticed the smouldering glances he had endured from the speakers.
It had been a sultry summer. Diana had still not launched into fishing. She seemed to be ailing. She stayed indoors wilting, brooding. Keith was obliged to go out by himself. Keith found Marie-Noël at his favourite spot on the river bank below the old crumbling walls of the château. She had landed three good-sized carp already. She moved her basket to make room. He told her that Diana seemed in low spirits.
“The weather seems just too hot, this summer,” he said, and added ruefully, “the writing’s going badly, too—I offered to take her to dinner in Quimper, but she reminded me the Renault is out of action.”
Marie-Noël laid her strong brown hand on his knee. He decided regretfully that she must have thought he was complaining about his wife. He could not help shrinking away from her. Quickly she removed her hand. “I must get back,” she said. “Time for milking.”
Keith rushed into the house.
* * * *
“I’ll send for tickets tomorrow!” he blurted out to Diana, desultorily turning the pages of an old magazine while Joséphine polished the table. “A world cruise! That’s what we need.”
“Won’t that be frightfully expensive?” asked Diana but she had visibly brightened.
“If necessary, we’ll sell this damned place!” said Keith.
“Darling—don’t you like it here?”
“No, I damn well don’t!” he said bitterly. “Haven’t for ages! How about you?”
“We—ell,” said Diana. “It has begun to pall….”
“An early night, then!” He was filled with new energy. “Tomorrow, the arrangements. There’s life in the old dogs yet, eh?”
“Mm…but I’ve this dreadful headache….”
For weeks now, they had used separate bedrooms.
“You go along,” he said tolerantly. “Take a pill—I’ll tuck you up on my way through. “Where’s Joséphine?”
“I think she slipped out a few moments ago….”
Keith sighed. “I still find her grotesque….”
* * * *
Joséphine stood in the dimly-lit hallway at the farmhouse.
“Come,” said the tiny creature. “Now!” And a shaft of moonlight through the fanlight transformed her into a magical wood-fée.
The three women glided silently out into the brooding majestic forest. Kercarter was in darkness. Joséphine led the way to Diana’s room. Smoothly, efficiently, as she had learned, a mere child of eight, from her brothers, Marie-Nöel dispatched the sleeping Englishwoman. Wiping her knife on the bedclothes, she followed her sisters. Odette was smiling as fulfilment approached. Joséphine had snatched off her scarf and shaken out a rippling mass of shining blonde hair so that from the back, she was a voluptuous beauty. From the front, the gorgeous mane made her an even more grotesque sight to Keith who, unbearably hot this sultry June night, lay naked on top of his sheet.
We took the mid-morning ferry from Cherbourg. I left the car at the Avis depot, explaining that my plans had been suddenly changed. The monotony of the eight-hour crossing was welcome to us both. We were numb with horror.
We had raced back to our gîte through the pouring rain, packed up and flown. The gîte had been paid for in advance. We’d made for Rennes and then headed north.
I passed my time aboard observing and eavesdropping as usual though not with any real intention of turning any of it into stories. For the moment I felt I would never write, never talk, never laugh again. At the same time, I knew this sensation would pass. And before this nightmare journey was over, I must say something to Tony. About an hour before landing at Southampton, we made our plans. Tony would go straight to Dover where his friends were assembling for the long overland trip to the Southern Hemisphere. He would help work on the Land Rovers they were kitting out and then spend a couple of days with his mother. I would only say that I could not face Carlton House Terrace or Mabiche or Beryl just yet. He asked me over and over where I would go and if I would be all right. I assured him that I would recov
er. I even made some facetious remark about “doing a Garbo.”
“I shall curl up somewhere and write mildly unhappy love stories for Women’s Magazines,” I joked. “Why shouldn’t all women suffer?” I added bitterly. I pressed money into his hand.
In the bleakly-unattractive dockside area, we hugged each other and wept silently together. Then we separated—he took a bus, I a taxi. I’d admitted to him my shattered hopes for a perfect uncomplicated relationship with Robert. He’d confessed to feeling rather angry now on top of his hurt. He was beginning, he said, to feel indignant for both of us. He’d guessed, he said, that I’d felt something really special for “that rat.” What he could not know was that I strongly suspected that in those few precious, blissful moments of complete union with Robert—I had conceived.
Chapter 19
Kathryn’s father, recently widowed, had moved in with her on a trial basis. If they got on as well as they both expected, he would eventually dispose of his thatched cottage in Essex and throw in his lot with her permanently.
When she’d told me earlier of these plans, I’d thought it rather a pity—her total renunciation of the hope of a conjugal relationship with a man. Now I envied her.
They took me in without asking any questions. At my request they let Mabiche and Beryl know that I was being cared for without revealing my whereabouts.
Kathryn was busy all day at the Library. She was researching a book. She took me to the great fascinating tower of a building, but the feeling of walking about on giant bookshelves made me giddy.
Mr. Henry, too, was occupied, redecorating the house from top to bottom. They’d given me the ground-floor guest room which doubled as a tutorial study in term time. David must have sat in here often, heatedly discussing his essays. The French window led out into the tiny walled patio garden, and a gate gave onto a patch of green with a climbing frame. I sat for long hours watching the toddlers attempting daring feats, pining about the child in my womb, wanting it terribly but dreading lest it be a monster.
I’d told Robert about most of the people close to me, but I was sure I’d hardly mentioned Kathryn so I felt fairly safe. And anyway, I told myself despairingly, he probably hadn’t the slightest desire to seek me out.
Yet he’d been so persistent when he tricked his way into my house less than a year ago. How could Fate have been so cruel to present me with my Knight at last, having foisted me off so far with secondary pieces—and then to slam him back inside the box?
I chose a Wednesday to make my furtive trip to St Ives. Midweek—it was pretty certain that he would be in town. I borrowed Kathryn’s car and drove off into the fens. I was charmed by the little town—or would have been, if I hadn’t been overcome every five minutes by black waves of depression. I parked under the statue of Cromwell and wandered for a while in the alleys leading down to the river. Here and there new, bright little shops had risen like phoenixes from amongst the crumbling stone buildings. Bric-a-brac, but well-chosen, and surprisingly adventurous clothing boutiques were dotted here and there, abounding in matt pine fittings and bottle-glass windows.
I made my way along High Street and found the house just before the buildings petered out on one side, giving direct access to the river where house-boats bobbed and ducks and swans floated. It was a grim, dilapidated dwelling tucked up against the side of a church, but the views across the road to the willow-hung water must have been pleasant enough.
The last building on the river side of the street was a wine bar. I went inside and studied the menu. The local specialty was Fidget Pie and I was just about to order it out of curiosity more than appetite when a loud burst of laughter from the far end of the bar counter caught my attention. A group of young men, quite a few in Air Force uniform, were drinking their pints and joking with the two barmaids—one of whom was Lilian. I slunk out unnoticed and found my way to a sunny bench on the riverside path. I waited till two and saw her come out, surrounded by admirers who escorted her across the road and were invited inside Robert’s house. How could someone who couldn’t read cope with bar orders and giving change, I wondered.
I found an antique shop and was struck by a lovely Georgian leather-topped desk. I arranged for it to be sent to Kathryn. I had decided to go back to London the next day.
Beryl gave birth to a daughter in February. Convinced she would have a boy she had planned on calling him Django. Groping back in her memories for other names than those of famous jazz musicians, she came up with Natasha.
My baby was born in Paris a month later, five weeks early but a fine, healthy boy. I called him Michel, my father’s second Christian name. I watched his development apprehensively for the first two years of his life, dreading any sign of deficiency. Mabiche, who of course concerned herself with the practical details of his bringing up and who worshipped every reddish-blond hair on his handsome little head, watched me watching him. One day she faced me with my fears.
“Whatever you’re fretting about in particular,” she said, “you’d best take him to a doctor. Myself, I can see nothing wrong with him but you must put your fears—whatever they are—at rest.”
He was pronounced a model infant by one of the best pediatricians in France and Mabiche went about with a smug look having had her knowledge of his perfection confirmed. I went out and bought him a bright blue pedal car. It was a coup de foudre for him—he spent hours sitting in it chanting Brmm! brrmmm!—and had to be forcibly persuaded out of it at bedtime. I wrote a story called The Little Blue Car but most of my creative efforts nowadays went on the preparation of my novel which I was attacking in a rather haphazard way, writing whole sections at a time then faltering over a paragraph and putting the jumbled manuscript away in a drawer for weeks at a time.
I’d sold my London house and bought a small Elizabethan manor near Saffron, Walden. There was always room for us at Beryl’s town house, if we felt the need to taste the bright lights when in England. Similarly, she knew that she, Charles and Natasha were always welcome at “The Chimneys.”
I took both toddlers to show off to Kathryn. She’d always declared herself allergic to small children and I’d often seen tots parked on her stairs with her “toy” Slinky spring lurching its way from step to step for their entertainment, refused access to the living room where their parents were being regaled. She was charmed to find both my charges so well-behaved and did not even flinch when they approached her precious and fragile coral collection. Later, Mr. Henry took them out to the climbing frame.
I clutched at my pearl choker as we watched them from the first floor window.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “No child ever attempts anything beyond its capabilities.”
I looked at her uncomprehendingly. I hadn’t been worrying about the children’s safety—just remembering the awful time when I’d sat, depressed and alone, watching other people’s offspring, wondering about my own.
Again she misunderstood my look.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she laughed. “How absurd of me to make pronouncements on the upbringing of babies. It’s second-hand information I couldn’t help taking in when I helped proof read a friend’s book on the subject. I’ve a copy somewhere if you’d like it.”
I shook my head.
“Of course,” she capitulated. “Why should you need it? You’re doing a great job—on your own.”
“I’m not on my own,” I said. “Mabiche deserves most of the credit.”
She fingered my pearls.
“I suppose they’re real,” she said, obviously wanting to change the subject.
“Yes—Ciro’s,” I said. “I’m dividing my time between England and France. But I want Michel to have an English education.”
“Ah, I’ll have another of your boys at King’s…” she said delightedly. “And how is Tony?”
“Very happy,” I said. “We all love Reika. Beryl and I are mad with envy, mind you, at her saris and her kohl. The only blot on the horizon is that they’re talking of going to
the States—Tony’s got the chance of a job in a laboratory connected with the Space Programme. And would you believe it—a talented, beautiful, gentle creature like Reika has been terribly hurt here—by the prejudice….”
“Oh, God, how dreadful,” said Kathryn. “Talking of moving though—I’m putting out feelers for a job at Exeter. So I probably won’t in fact tutor your Michel—unless he fancies Devon at eighteen.”
We talked of a possible holiday together in France. One of Kathryn’s Arthurian conferences was due that summer. I offered her my home in Paris to break her journey but I knew I could not face Brittany.
“I feel so much brighter for seeing you,” she said as she helped bundle the children into the back of the car. “I’ve been a bit—low—recently. And it’s a struggle hiding it from Dad.”
“Have you seen a doctor?” I asked. I’d noticed her putting her hand over her eyes several times during the afternoon. “About your headaches?”
“I will, I will,” she said. “Though I’ve had intermittent migraine since I was twelve and fell off a horse. Gaby,” she clung to me for an instant, “I’m so glad you’ve got your child.”
* * * *
It took my dear friend Kathryn two years to die. Her father ushered me into her bedroom the day after the tumour had been diagnosed.
“I’m finished,” she said grimly, hoisting herself up on her pillows. “They’re going to operate, but afterwards, I’ll not be able to drive…to work….”
“It’s in the outer membrane, thankfully,” said her father breezily. “Which means a very straightforward operation.”
I telephoned him a few days later. His voice had lost its cheerful optimism.
“The operation wasn’t as successful as they’d hoped—those are the surgeon’s words—” he told me. “Her speech has been affected. She’ll be back home at the weekend. Please come and see her.”
Kathryn, who revelled in words even more than I did, who rejoiced in her own power to manipulate words, to extract logically-filed groups of words from her orderly memory—Kathryn, who, I’m sure was still thinking normally, was unable to communicate sensibly. She smiled brightly at me and looked well, apart from the first shock of her shaven head—but she spoke gibberish.
With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris] Page 12
